Not the bratva, not my position. Nothing. Why did it take you getting hurt for me to see it clearly?
“What did you find?”
“The money came from a shell company set up by Davenport.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want it to come to this.
I met Kolya’s eyes. “Anya.”
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Mr.Anonymous
First responders circled Davenport’sLong Island mansion. A 911 call reported a break-in and a murder.
Anya Davenport is dead.A maid found her body. Strangled. The autopsy would reveal that she was a victim of the Mistress Strangler.
The real Mistress Strangler.
Not the fucking copycats perpetuated by the Russian bratva who stole the headlines last year. I was insulted. I fumed and frothed and fantasized about my revenge. The initial forensics of those killings were sloppy. They should have noted the absence of ligature marks. I always used shibari ropes, not my hands. But any forensic worth their ilk would note that the wordwhorewasn’t carved carelessly. It took skill.
The victim they would never find was Davenport’s lover. He fit my code. A home wrecker. Anya Davenport didn’t reach the level of mistress, but she had no shame in aspiring to be one. I might have given her a push to get rid of Lucy De Lucci. Anya was so easy to manipulate once I set her end goal as KirillZahkarov. I had access to Davenport’s shell company he set up to keep his lover in style.
Marriage was a sacred sacrament.
My father shouldn’t have cheated on my mother, and she made sure her children understood the sanctity of marriage.
Lucy, unfortunately, became collateral damage. But she ceased to be useful once it was clear she had fallen for a Zahkarov. Didn’t she have any pride? I even sent her those videos as a wedding gift and continued reporting Kirill’s clandestine meetings with Anya. Though unfortunately nothing juicy happened. The man took his wedding vows seriously even when his former lover was there for the taking. Then, he started paying attention to his wife.
More first responder activities set up in front of Davenport’s house. More nosy neighbors. I was merely a man walking his dog by an emerging crime scene. I wore a hoodie with paparazzi-proof lining so no camera could capture my face. Still, I looked down. A dark SUV slowed in front of Anya’s house. I recognized the driver as someone from the bratva.
They must have finished cleaning up my loose ends—Oz and his crew.
See, I had a deal with Viktor Koshkin and Anya. Viktor had been so tired of taking orders from his brother. Of course, it helped that he had my unlimited financial resources. By getting rid of Bruce Davenport, it weakened Peter’s organization. And where did Anya come in? She spiked Davenport’s drink the night he confronted Viktor about his lover’s death. Anya knew where the trust documents were, and she would reveal the conditions of the trust once we got rid of her husband.
Unfortunately, Viktor got careless. But I filmed the entire fucked-up traffic stop that Kirill instigated and that no amount of deep fakes could discredit. I sent that video to Peter the dayKirill and Lucy went on vacation because it was clear those two had fallen for each other.
I had to shake things up.
It’d be a while for the cops to process the scene, and they’d probably called the FBI. I was getting bored. Besides, I couldn’t risk anyone from Kirill’s bratva recognizing me. I had a role to play.
I walked away from the scene while more of the neighborhood came to ogle. A couple of blocks away, I released the stray dog I used as a prop and got into a dark van with fake license plates. I drove it into a garage, where I parked my Mercedes. I changed in the van, back into the respectable and expensive suit I always wore.
Then I texted her.
Me
Are you ready to go?
She responded. I smiled.
Then, as if I hadn’t just murdered a woman that night, I drove the Mercedes to Manhattan Medical.
She was waiting outside the hospital entrance. A blonde, petite vision in pink.
Aralina Zahkarova.
